If you talk about the gazing, my
head will tilt away and
you're going to think I'm
dishonest.
Don't whisper
quit it quit it.
It's a black void, there's no one
else
to hear you.
He'll touch
and touch
and touch
and touch
and I feel absolutely, entirely
nothing -
give me the fucking antidote,
you.
Yesterday I couldn't
remember your shape, so
I cried.
One down
thousands to go.
So far I have been given
a futile habit of scratching solids,
and a fragmented memory of
sunshine, would you
like to add on before I
celebrate the death day?